


Chapter 70 1/2

by GretaRama



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Brimstone - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, mostly canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3136580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretaRama/pseuds/GretaRama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chapter that ought to have been in Brimstone but wasn't. No offense to the authors and originators of these characters, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, but I think we all know Viola was some sort of red herring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter 70 1/2

Vincent D'Agosta stood in the foothills of the Apennines, looking down at the city of Pistoia where it glowed, jewel-like, at the base of the surrounding hills. Although the rank, sweet mustiness of Carlo Vanni's grave still clung to him, the fresh scent of crushed herbs and cypress trees that swept along with the night breeze was helping to dissipate it.

"My guess is, they're waiting to see what we find," he said, in response to Pendergast's question.

"Indeed."

"What now?" he asked, as the taillights of the car that had followed them disappeared around another switchback.

"A journey over water awaits us in the morning," Pendergast said. "As for this evening, I suppose we're at loose ends, since it appears our adversaries can't be bothered to provide us with any entertainment."

"And here I thought you were getting too decrepit for late-night gunfights," D'Agosta said.

"I may have exaggerated the extent of my decrepitude a trifle."

"No kidding,” D’Agosta said wryly. “So, we heading back to the hotel?"

Pendergast stepped closer to Vincent and joined him in looking out at the view. “Such a lovely spot,” he said. “I thought, perhaps, we might enjoy a nightcap here before heading back to town.” He turned an inquisitive look on his friend.

D'Agosta stared at him for several seconds before he replied. "Sure."

Pendergast retrieved a bottle from the rented Fiat, and the two men took seats on a low stone wall at the edge of the churchyard. The FBI agent pulled the cork and handed the bottle to D'Agosta.

"What, no letting it breathe?"

"It's old enough to look after itself," came the cool reply. 

D'Agosta put the bottle to his lips and drank. "Nice," he said. In fact, it was a revelation, and words like "bright," "velvety," "spicy," and "smooth" sprung to mind, but he didn't hazard an evaluation. He handed the bottle back to Pendergast.

"I'm glad you approve," he said. They continued handing the bottle back and forth in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the cool night air.

"So," D'Agosta said eventually. "Does this usually work for you? A few car chases, some gunfire, a little bit of grave robbing and wine?"

"It never has before," Pendergast replied. "But then, I've been improvising. I don't think I've ever tried things in this exact sequence." He turned his head to look at D'Agosta, elbows resting on his knees, hands holding the bottle loosely in front of him. D’Agosta caught the flash of white teeth as Pendergast smiled. "Why? Is it working now?"

His posture remained outwardly loose and relaxed, but D'Agosta could sense a tension in his friend's body that hadn't been there before. His own throat had gone dry; he hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect. He had never flirted with a man before, but the chemistry between the two of them had always been there, just below the surface. Over the last few days it had grown even more charged. "Yeah," he said quietly. "You could say that."

Another lengthy pause. Pendergast turned his face away, eyes fixed on the ground before him. He looked like a man waiting for news in a hospital waiting room. "And Hayward?"

"We haven't made any promises," he said. "We might get there, eventually - at least I think so - but not yet."

"Ah," Pendergast said. “I had rather hoped as much.”

Any doubts Vincent might have had about the underlying meaning of their conversation vanished.

D’Agosta had given up trying to explain his attraction to Aloysius Pendergast to himself. He wasn’t bothered by the idea of being with a man, rigidly macho Italian Catholic upbringing notwithstanding. He had always been more sensitive and open-minded than his parents and his peers; it was part of what made him such a good cop. He had even been attracted to men before, in an abstract way – Frank Sinatra, of course, along with a handful of baseball players and musicians – but he had never felt this powerful, visceral sexual pull. 

And so he leaned forward slowly, letting his hands slide along the sides of the other man’s face, and kissed him gently. Pendergast responded stiffly at first, not pulling away, but becoming very still, as though trying to sort out how to react. D’Agosta wondered how long it had been since Pendergast had been kissed, and guessed by his reaction that it had been quite a while.

It was awkward at first; the light contact of their mouths pressing together, but Vincent persisted, opening his mouth, coaxing the other man with his tongue, and Pendergast gradually relaxed, quiescent, leaning into the kiss, his hands rising to grip Vincent’s shoulders. Their heads tilted, they pulled one another closer, and Vincent felt the other man’s hands flat on his back, let his own hands roam and explore territory that was familiar and foreign at once.

Aloysius’s height and slight build made him look almost fragile at times, but now, up close and hands-on, there was a ruggedness to his body that was unmistakably masculine. His lips were soft, yes, but Vincent felt the slight scrape of stubble when he touched the other man’s face. His body was lean, but the bone and muscle under Vincent’s hands felt powerful. The man was built like a whippet, his thinness belying rough, sinewy strength. 

Vincent had wondered how he would respond to intimacy with another man; whether he would suddenly discover that he was closer to the heterosexual end of the spectrum that he had suspected, if it would be too forceful, more like wrestling than sex. To his relief, all worries or expectations he might have had were obliterated by his desire to touch, to explore, and to be touched and explored in return. 

They pulled apart, panting, foreheads pressed together. Vincent could see Aloysius’s eyes, so dilated the iris almost looked black; could hear the rasp of the other man’s breath picking up speed as he set to work on the buttons of Vincent’s shirt. Vincent winced inwardly as the garment fell away from his rather more comfortable physique. His self-consciousness evaporated, however, at the obvious appreciation of his partner, who ran cool hands over the robust breadth of chest and belly with a hum of pleasure, reigniting the kiss with a heat and urgency that made Vincent’s blood pound. 

They stood then, still kissing furiously, as Aloysius shed his jacket and Vincent fumbled the buttons of the white shirt undone. They parted for a hasty moment, shucking encumbering clothes, and then flew together again, sinking gradually to their knees, then collapsing together onto the ground, no longer concerned about the dew-laden grass.

Their hips moved together, the hard length of Aloysius’s cock rubbing firmly and insistently against him through the fabric of their trousers. It was almost too much, enough to make him let go right then and there, and he moaned a little, the sound muffled in a kiss pressed to Aloysius’s neck. Aloysius leaned forward, began working his way from neck to nipple to navel and then, with tantalizing slowness, lower. Vincent closed his eyes, and his body bucked as the heat of Aloysius’s mouth closed on his aroused flesh.

The pleasure of it was deep, sharp and immediate, a million nerves thrumming in response to the combination of heat and pressure and friction. He started to utter a rosary under his breath, but only made it to an extremely heartfelt “Holy Mary Mother of God” before his orgasm hit and he almost doubled over with the force of it. He stayed there, gasping, for at least a minute afterward, his hands on Aloysius’s head, smoothing his hair affectionately as the other man rested his cheek on Vincent’s belly.

“Aloysius,” he said, realizing with surprise that it was the only time he had ever used the man’s first name. He smiled lopsidedly down at him, touched by the sight of his tousled hair hanging in his face, by the way he looked almost boyish in the dim light from the city below and the stars above.

Wordlessly they moved toward one another again, Aloysius on his side, curled in the crook of Vincent’s arm. The contact of skin on skin was electric against Vincent’s intensely sensitized nerves, and he drew Aloysius closer, kissing his ear, his neck, letting his hands drift over the flat planes of his chest and abdomen to the waistband of his trousers, which he unfastened and shoved down roughly. He wrapped his hand around the shaft of Aloysius’s cock and felt a corresponding twinge as the other man caught his breath and thrust into his hand. He continued stroking teasingly, lightly, his own penis hardening in sympathy, jerking slightly with each stroke. Aloysius turned a little, pressing back against him. Vincent froze, uncertain, and Aloysius reached back, guiding the wet head of Vincent’s cock to the entrance of his body, his movements urging him forward and in.

“You sure?” Vincent asked, his voice little more than a harsh whisper.

“Yes,” Aloysius replied, his voice equally jagged and desperate. “Please, Vincent.”

Vincent pushed inside cautiously at first, one hand resting on the spare blade of a hip, until Aloysius gave a ragged sigh of pleasure. Then, he picked up his pace on both fronts, and they rocked together, Aloysius’s hand over Vincent’s, and Vincent found that the force of the other man’s urgency drove his own arousal to new heights. His hips moved without volition, in a pattern that was familiar and sure, until he was nearly out of his mind with delirious pleasure. 

Aloysius managed only a single syllable, “Oh,” as he began to shudder with his release, but something about the way he said it sent chills down Vincent’s spine; it was so heartfelt, so full of wonder, conveying the sense of a pleasure so intense it is almost like pain. His body shook and his skin rippled with waves of gooseflesh. Vincent followed him almost at once, and for a little eternity, there was nothing but physical sensation. 

Afterward, he was surprised by the powerful feeling of protectiveness that came over him. It almost seemed ridiculous; Vincent had seldom met anyone more competent at looking after himself. And yet, when he wrapped his arms tighter, pulled Aloysius closer, the other man settled more firmly against him, allowing himself to be held, and his body softened a little, the ever-present wary tension draining away for a little while.

Later, Vincent would scarcely remember how they transitioned from their embrace in the little churchyard to the hotel, where Aloysius somehow managed to arrange the delivery of an epic multi-course meal that they consumed while sitting up in bed, discussing the potential ramifications of the mysterious death of Carlo Vanni. Perhaps because of the subject matter, Vincent barely managed to make it through the first course (anchovies in olive oil with butter and crostini). Aloysius, however, cut an impressive swath through a plate of _tagliata_ and another of _linguine tarantina_ before settling down with a dish of green apple gelato drenched in Calvados and reading aloud from a website about the history of Capraia. 

He smiled as Aloysius read, bemused by the intimacy of this moment. Fucking Aloysius on a grassy hillside in the middle of the night after conducting an illegal exhumation had been exhilaratingly strange; seeing him eat ice cream in bed like a normal human being was impossibly endearing.

“What do you expect to find on Capraia?” Vincent asked, as Aloysius finally seemed to exhaust his store of mental energy and they lay together in the darkness. 

“Family secrets,” Aloysius replied. “And for once, they belong to a family other than mine.”


End file.
